


Aflame

by Dangereuse



Series: Tomarry D&D-athon [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Captivity, Gen, Harry is very depressed, Voldemort is an Actualfax ASS, Voldemort the Actualfax Dragon, dragon!AU, not very shippy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23516374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangereuse/pseuds/Dangereuse
Summary: Harry isn't cut out for captivity.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: Tomarry D&D-athon [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1692079
Comments: 3
Kudos: 77





	Aflame

Harry’s been living in the dragon’s hoard for three days now, and the terror and anger have faded until he’s almost… bored.

Which leads to him kicking about the hoard, seeing what in Merlin’s name he can do.

Which, furthermore, leads him to stumble over a truly ostentatious pile of gold, slipping and sliding until he ends up crashing into the horrible milk white scales of his dragon captor.

Harry tenses up as his body careens into Voldemort’s massive bulk, before Harry just decides: “fuck it”. If he dies, he _dies_.

He kicks out at the dragon’s hide, feeling somewhere between enraged and suicidal. He’s the only survivor from his village, as far as he knows, and he’s been _trapped_ here for three days, banging around a cavernous dragon hoard, scavenging for food off an enchanted tablecloth, of all things, and listening to the grotesque lizard _snore,_ like he can’t be bothered to care that he burned down Harry’s home and everything he loves. 

Harry can still feel the fire over hot and scalding on his skin, feel the choking horror of smoke in his throat as he keeps kicking. “What the bloody hell am I even _doing here_?” He screams, feeling vicious and stupid with it.

Voldemort gives a lazy twitch like the massive lazy berk can’t even feel his feet. Which, considering how gigantic he is, might actually be ‘no’. One giant eye the size of a banquet platter for serving whole boar flicks open, first the milky white lid and then the terrifying inky black nictitating membrane, finally revealing a blood red eye. “I am sleeping, pet. I exerted myself quite thoroughly on that pigsty of a village.”

“You’ve been sleeping for three sodding days!” Harry shouts, furious and vicious with it. He kicks Voldemort again, fed up with the implication that his village was simply a spot of strenuous exercise, that he’s too small for Voldemort to even care about his blows. He feels tears at the corners of his eyes.

Voldemort makes a deep shuddering sigh, and turns his gigantic pale head in Harry’s direction, until he’s being prodded with Voldemort’s grotesque white snout. It still reeks of blood and ash, and Harry gags. “I don’t require you for entertainment at the moment and I’m certainly not hungry. Run along.”

Harry sees red. “No I bloody hell won’t, you sodding wanker!” And he swings a fist at Voldemort’s horrendous snout.

Voldemort rears back, more out of surprise than anything, and then sneezes, shooting out a gout of flame that catches the tattered remnants of Harry’s clothes aflame. Harry screams. For a second he’s back in the village, and then a huge wave of _good_ rolls over him. He’ll die in flames like them too. 

Voldemort’s huge front clawed paw comes crashing down on Harry, sending him to his back and butt in a crash of bruising pain. The paw lifts and comes crashing down again, extinguishing the flames. Harry goes limp under its force, feeling like a bruised fruit and praying that none of his limbs break. He’ll be lucky if he’s not purple tomorrow.

“Stupid,” Voldemort hisses at him, affronted.

“Sod off,” Harry hisses, trying to push away when the paw comes back down again. It’s completely ineffective, and Harry feels the muscles of his arms strain and then collapse as he’s scooped up like he was three days ago. “Let me go!” He wriggles the best he can, which is not at all. 

“Quiet, or I’ll set you aflame again!” Voldemort hisses.

Harry screams right in Voldemort’s reptilian face. “Do it then!”

Voldemort draws his head up high, until it’s nearly brushing the ceiling of the cavernous hoard room. He blinks at Harry, a one-two slide of his inner and outer eyelid. Then he scoops Harry up in one clawed hand, bringing his panting and squirming body up closer to examine. If Harry reached out, he might be able to poke one blood red eye. He’s tempted. 

“Do you wish to die, pet?”

Harry wriggles, even if at this height he might fall and break something. He doesn’t say a word, just thrashing against Voldemort’s grip. 

Voldemort considers him. “Well,” Voldemort orders. “You aren’t allowed to die until I kill you.”

Voldemort lowers him to the ground, but gathers him up until he’s forcibly pinned between Voldemort’s claws and the warm dry scales of his foreleg. Voldemort lowers his long swanlike neck too, until he’s pinned again from three sides. Harry feels like one of the flowers the bookseller’s wife would press between the pages.

“Now, rest, you tiny idiot.”

Harry presses his face to warm scales and cries silent tears until he passes out.


End file.
